


Beyond the Borders of the Sky

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Series: Stars are Mansions 'verse [2]
Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: All kinds of sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Iseult is the best bird, M/M, Madancy, Magic, Serious Injuries, Tristahad - Freeform, did we mention stupidly in love?, galahad is trying so hard, just go with it, so much vague magic, tristan and galahad are stupidly in love, tristan is impatient, tristhad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/printersdeadly/pseuds/printersdeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: Iseult watches over him as he stretches back out beside Tristan. He doesn't sleep, just watches her back. Eventually he slips into a sort of trance. He's not sure, but he thinks she's talking to him. Not words but images. A river, a rocky meadow, a small stone hut. He doesn't know if he's simply delirious from fear or exhaustion, just that he has to follow the path. Gripped by it, he peers out from beneath the tarp and sees the woods touched by a distant green dawn."Tell me what to do," he whispers to Tristan.With a high, eerie whistle, Iseult takes wing and hovers."I guess I'm trusting the bird," Galahad sighs, kissing Tristan's forehead.





	Beyond the Borders of the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little something we've been working on for a while, inspired by our pal lecterisms and the fact that we absolutely intend to ignore/rewrite the ending of this movie given any opportunity. Finishing it up for #RareMeat's Tristhad week was obviously the perfect plan, and we're squeaking in just under the wire, thankfully! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> xo,  
> Lars and Deadly

The sky still drips with screams when Galahad finds Tristan amongst the bodies, and in that instant when his eyes find the pale face and crimson blood, he throws his hands up and asks any god that is listening to spare him. He drops his sword to the muddy grass; there is no one nearby left to kill anyway.

His hands go to Tristan, pulling him into his arms, and he tries to choke back his sobs as he cranes his neck to listen for his breathing. "Don't you fucking dare," he warns him tearfully, "don't you _dare_. I'm not done with you."

The weakest little puff of breath fogs his bracer, and he feels the tears track down his cheeks. He presses a kiss to his slack mouth, and then throws a hand up to Arthur in the distance.

"Get me a healer!" he screams. "It's Tristan!"

He doesn't wait for help, he scrabbles to inspect the wounds himself. They're deep, and many. Galahad rips off what's left of his cloak and blots it to Tristan's stomach, applying pressure, looking for anything that might need a tourniquet. He weeps silently, only noticing the tears when they splash on his hands.

Waiting for help to come, all he can do is try to keep Tristan warm. A squawk makes him look up, finding Iseult hunched on a tree branch. He wipes his eyes fiercely, and on impulse, holds his arm out to her. She alights on his wrist, just for a moment.

"Find us someplace safe," he whispers. And then she goes again, with a last glance back at her friend before she disappears into the sky.

When help comes, it first comes in the form of one of Guinevere's kin, a witch-doctor with clawed hands and bright eyes, eerie in the settling dusk, crows settling in around them to feed on the dead that have not yet been collected.

Galahad still won't let go of Tristan, but he lets the pale-eyed woman tend to him until the medic comes. Before she’s swept away by the more ignorant of the soldiers, she hands Galahad a small box that smells medicinal and raw even to him. He clutches it to his chest, and bows his head in thanks.

She leaves with a soft smile. When the other soldiers try to peel him away from Tristan in turn, he just bares his teeth. He watches them clean and sew and bandage what they can, all the while shaking their heads when Tristan never rouses from unconsciousness. A strange humming in his ears keeps him from processing it too closely, shock and blood loss and frantic fear.

Eventually one of the medics tries to tend to him, as well. He endures it, never taking his eyes off Tristan, pale and motionless for the duration of the carriage ride back to camp. He insists Tristan be taken back to their tent, not to the larger one set aside for the wounded. The night is drawing in, and he's steeped in anxiety.

He's hovering in the door flap of the tent when Arthur and Bors ride up, both still dirty and visibly exhausted.

"Galahad," Arthur's brows are drawn heavy with concern, "how is he?"

"Breathing," Galahad says, tone accusatory.

The frown deepens. "Galahad-"

"There is no point," Galahad cuts him off, "in being free without him."

"Of course there's a point -"

"Not for me!" Galahad snarls. "If he dies, you have robbed me of everything I have ever loved!"

"I haven't -" Arthur starts, looking stricken.

"Galahad," Bors starts.

"What? Is it not true?" The rage he usually struggles to simmer down has boiled over completely in his grief. He can feel himself flushing. “Does he not use us and use us until we’ve nothing left to give but our lives? I’m sure Dagonet and Lancelot would agree.”

Arthur seems nearly speechless, certainly shamefaced. It's the only thing that's brought Galahad any relief.

"I'm taking him away from here. We're finished."

"What do you mean?" Arthur says.

"I mean we won your battle, and our service is done."

"Yes, but - you'll leave us? Now? Tristan needs care, Galahad, he’s dying-"

"Then he’ll die with me. He's not safe here. He needs to be somewhere warm. Somewhere quiet."

Arthur is grave. "You have your horses, and your armor, and I will give you a wagon. Will you not return to the fort for your things?"

He thinks later he'll feel guilty, but currently Galahad only feels an intense need to get away - to get Tristan away. He shakes his head. Arthur visibly steels himself.

"I'll have them sent on, when you get settled."

Galahad just nods, and lets the tent flap fall closed again. He needs to go requisition a wagon. He needs to get away from here.

*

And he does, the next day at dawn when Tristan is greyer and feebler looking than ever, when the smell of the dead drifts up from the pyres even this far from the battlefield. Galahad loads the wagon with supplies, secures Tristan as best he can on a straw mattress and furs, and sets off for the North with his cloak tight around his shoulders.

Overhead, Iseult circles.

*

Galahad travels without a destination, using the Wall as a means to get further away, nearly without pause except to switch the horses. When the road is too dark and the call of night creatures spooks them, he stops and rests them by a river, climbing into the back of the wagon and putting his hand to Tristan's throat to test the pulse there.

Still fluttering. Still breathing. Galahad makes a fire large enough to boil the willow tea that the Woad woman had given him, and carefully pours it by drops into Tristan's mouth when it’s cooled slightly. When he's bathed and changed the dressings on his wounds, he pulls down another lot of furs on Tristan to keep him warm and curls up beside him - he can't stay long, but he needs to rest, and needs to be beside Tristan. He keeps a hand on Tristan's chest all night, and dreams of waking to find him cold.

In the dream, he panics, and then the wagon panel is swept back and the true Tristan stands, Iseult at his shoulder.

“Come, Galahad,” he whispers, “I have something to show you.”

Panic barely subsiding, Galahad follows. Out in the dawn air, it’s cool and blue, and the water of the nearby lake stirs as if restless. Tristan beckons him close.

“Here, beloved, come see.”

The warmth of him radiates off his body as Galahad leans in to peer where he points into the murmuring trees that flank the road. Another path has opened up, seemingly in the night, lit by strange green lights in the gloom.

“Behind the trees. Iseult will show you,” Tristan whispers, smile soft and serene when Galahad turns to him.

“Tristan –”

“Behind the trees, boy,” Tristan repeats slowly. He puts a hand on Galahad’s chest, and nods.

*

Galahad startles upright, fear gripping him, and hears the scratch of Iseult at the door of the wagon. He checks. Still breathing. Still pale and still, too.

He opens the door and watches her settle nearby. She's watching Tristan. Galahad thinks back over the dream he'd been having before her scratches awoke him - a track in the woods. He'll wait here until morning. And then, he'll search for it.

Iseult watches over him as he stretches back out beside Tristan. watches her back for a while, lulled by the stillness; by exhaustion. Eventually he becomes aware he may not be awake, though he feels his body, and his grip on Tristan, and he sees her show him. Not words but images. A river, a rocky meadow, a small stone hut. He doesn't know if he's simply delirious from fear or weariness, just that he has to follow the path. Gripped by it, he shakes off the heavy threads of sleep’s net and peers out from beneath the tarp; sees the woods touched by a distant green dawn.

"Tell me what to do," he whispers to Tristan.

With a high, eerie whistle, Iseult takes wing and hovers.

"I guess I'm trusting the bird," Galahad sighs, kissing Tristan's forehead.

He hitches the horses to the wagon again and sets off east, under Iseult's watchful hovering. It's a long, uncomfortable ride, and Galahad is a knight, not a farmer. It's another full day of bumping along before he sees a familiar but new sight; one of the trees from the half-dream, and the glass surface of the lake.

Somehow, he's not even surprised. With a glance back at his precious cargo, he urges the horses down the road from his dream, and watches the hawk flit in and out of view through the blanketing trees. Everything else has felt like a dream, since Tristan fell. Even more so when, as night falls, the little stone hut comes into view amongst the trees.

He reaches for his sword, just in case. With a final check on Tristan, he hops down and walks slowly toward the hut, stalling when Iseult swoops down to land on the roof. It seems deserted, one of the boards of the door rotted at the bottom.

Galahad peers into the hole, and seeing no one inside, opens it up. He wrinkles his nose. Debris is drifted into the corners and there's no furniture to speak of. But there's a chimney, and a rudimentary fireplace, and he can soon bring the bed of the wagon inside.

He nods, once. Time to get to work. "Keep an eye on him," he tells Iseult when he re-emerges.

She just flaps, a bit indignantly really.

"Sorry," he mutters, realizing he's apologizing to a bird. Then, he sets to.

*

It takes him several hours to deem the little hut habitable. The stream nearby provides him cold water to rinse himself when it's over, and he has provisions supplied by Arthur's guilt to eat. Most of all, he has Tristan laid out comfortably on the straw mattress, swathed in bedding and safe from whatever harm may attempt to befall them.

He sighs and settles himself down by Tristan's side again for a rest. He checks his brow - cool - and then lifts the bedding to check his dressings. His bleeding seems to have stopped, but Galahad doesn't like the look of one of his wounds. He gets out some of the ointment from the old mage, using clean fingers to apply it. Then he leans over to press their foreheads together for a moment.

"Don't leave me," he breathes.

He's not even surprised anymore at the lack of response. It still wounds though, deep and worrisome. He lets his eyes close as he turns it over in his mind. He can't pull away; has to stay close to the warmth of his mind. He would crawl inside if he could. Maybe there he'd find Tristan waiting. That's all he wants.

He stays there a long time. Until the warmth of the day abates and he is driven back outside for firewood. He builds a fire in the pit and tends it carefully until the hut is rosy with its glow. Even with the broken boards, it's relatively warm and comfortable. And in the light, Tristan looks less pallid.

Galahad puts a simple meal together for himself and heats some more broth for Tristan. He ought to forage soon, try to hunt with Iseult. With gentle words, he eases Tristan up, and tries to rouse him enough to feed him some. He's getting fairly skillful at it, unfortunately. Tristan barely stirs; barely cooperates.

"Please," Galahad's whispered refrain. "Please, please."

When he's done all he can, he cleans Tristan up and subsides. This feels like a safe place, but he doesn't know if he cares enough to do more than survive here until - they both are.

*

The next days - weeks - are much the same, until they begin to run together as swiftly as the shallow river that runs a little way down from the house. Galahad makes repairs to the little hut where he can and keeps a watchful eye over Tristan. He gathers wood for fires, clears out a safe patch of meadow to stake out the horses; they seem at ease grazing by the water. When the rain comes one night, Galahad finds his repairs hold up, and diverts his efforts to stockpiling wood and food. At night, when the exhaustion sets in, he dreams of Tristan, curled beside him close enough to touch.

He spends the hours that he can’t possibly sleep more gathering more edibles from the forest, checking his snares, and walking the little hut's self-imposed boundaries. It's so quiet in these parts, and Galahad wonders why - it's not so far from the road after all – until one evening he spies a tall runestone ahead in the trees, its face etched all over with intricate markings. He wishes he knew what they truly meant.

It has never truly occurred to him to call Tristan’s magic what it is – Paganism, borrowed or inherited, but under a different banner. Being a Sarmatian Knight was an honor bestowed upon them without their consent, but it occurs to Galahad it’s as much of a shield as anything. Galahad looks at the stone for a long time, the ground around it lush with mushrooms and long grass, starting to glisten as the rain begins. Abruptly, he misses his brothers. With his eyes on the stone, he says prayers for Lancelot and Dagonet, and feels grateful there is no one here to listen but the old stone.

Inside the house, he curls around Tristan in their corner piled with furs, listening to the rain fall or the wind in the leaves, and feeling Tristan's shallow breaths. He's barely woken in the entire time they've been here, only stirring when Galahad moves him too wash him or change the bedding, or tries to feed him. The wounds on his stomach and chest are looking healthier though, no more yellow or dark discharge creeping in, the bruises fading down. Truly the Woad witch was his saviour - and Galahad's. Nursing Tristan is the only time Galahad feels a spark of anything. Now, stretched beside him, he feels his eyes start to sting with the helplessness of missing him, and he reaches out to stroke his oily hair; his untidy beard.

"I think I'll go mad if you die," he whispers, voice thick, "so if you could wake up soon, that would be - that would be good."

At the thought, he gets up to go and fetch the water he's had warming on the fire; wets a cloth and brings it to wash Tristan. The beloved body, every inch and tattoo and scar. He soaps and rinses him in stages, careful every step, and only falters when Tristan makes a soft noise of discomfort when he's cleaning close to the wounds.

"I'm sorry, love."

Tristan's fingers twitch, and then he reaches to touch, and Galahad gently takes his wrist to stop him hurting himself.

"Don't, Tristan. I'm here."

Another soft murmur. Galahad leans down close, straining to hear the words. He can barely make them out over the pounding of his heart.

"I could see you," Tristan whispers.

"You can see me now," Galahad chokes out. "Open your eyes."

Tristan gives him a soft smile as he does as he's bid. For a man who's been asleep for so long, he looks exhausted. Galahad can barely see him through the tears that had welled as soon as he'd smiled.

"Pup..." Tristan raises a shaking hand to his cheek.

Galahad lets his head rest on his chest, an unbandaged part of it. "I thought you were going to die," he chokes.

"We all die," Tristan whispers. "But I see you have not - permitted it."

"And you would have, were it the other way around?"

"Not even with my last breath."

"There you have it then." Galahad whispers. "I told you I would lie down beside you."

"Seems it's been - more than that." He licks his lips, and Galahad hurries to lift a cup of water to them. "Where are we?"

"Iseult brought me here, I'm not entirely sure." He lifts back up, eyes devouring Tristan's face.

Tristan is looking around, and then he huffs. "I'm surprised she remembered."

"You've been here before," Galahad realizes.

"Yes," he says finally, "I remember." He smiles gently. "But she did first."

"She - I saw it," Galahad whispers, almost a question, "like a dream." Tristan laughs tiredly. Galahad strokes his hair back. "What is it-?"

"Now you know my secret."

He takes a deep breath, and decides he's not in the right mind to pursue that further. He goes back to washing Tristan gently, hands shaking.

Tristan's eyes look heavy again, like that was enough talking to exhaust him. Though after a minute, he does manage - "Should have known you'd be... stripping me off first chance you got..."

"Every chance I get," Galahad shoots back, unoffended.

That makes Tristan smile as he closes his eyes again. His hand catches Galahad's once more. He's asleep before Galahad can finish washing and dressing him. Even aching at being alone again, Galahad is so grateful to have spoken to him. He feels less hollow.

He eats a few scraps of bread, tidies up a little, and finally beds down beside Tristan, watching him closely in the dwindling firelight for further signs of movement. It's a familiar thing, now. He sighs into the dark and reaches out to squeeze Tristan's hand.

This time, he stirs enough to press their foreheads together. "Sweet Galahad," he whispers.

"Not for a long time," Galahad says.

Tristan doesn't answer. When Galahad closes his eyes and lets himself start to fall asleep, he thinks he can see his dreams again. It's the best inducement to sleep that he could think of.

*

The next morning, Galahad goes into the woods to find a few suitable young trees, and brings home the supplies to start building a bed frame. If this is to be their place together, he will make it theirs in truth. That, and sleeping on the floor is starting to bother him.

He is fortunate that he has the skill, that Arthur saw the wisdom of letting his knights learn more than warfare. The thought of Arthur gives him pause; he hasn't thought of any of his brothers for some time. He ought to let them know Tristan lives, at least. He whistles Iseult down out of the treetops one morning and presents her with an oilcloth-wrapped piece of parchment, gesturing as to tie it to her leg. She allows it, and seems to know the procedure well enough.

"Take it to Arthur," he whispers, daring to stroke her head.

She gives a high chirp, and takes off. He is sorry to see her go. She is surprisingly good company, even now that Tristan is awake more than not.

*

Tristan being awake means Tristan will need feeding, and Galahad spends hours of his time foraging, trapping, and planting, triangulating his wanderings via the hut, the river, and the standing stone, which he starts to leave flowers at without examining the impulse too closely.

One morning he's combing the bushes near the road for berries when he hears a sound he hasn't heard for weeks - the heavy clop of a warhorse, and the clink of weaponry. Galahad freezes. He's standing on top of a fallen tree trunk, raiding the protected interior canes of a blackberry bush, and there's no way to hide. He has a knife in his boot, but it's a short blade meant for trimming brush and cutting snares.

The man is dressed as a Woad, though with no familiar tribe insignia visible. Galahad has no idea if he's loyal to Merlin, if he's truly a Woad or just traveling as one, or if it even matters. He tenses, hand reaching for his boot. But the man's eyes pass over him as if he were no more substantial than a cobweb tangled on the blackberry brambles, and Galahad's breath escapes him in a startled puff.

There is absolutely no logical reason he hasn't been seen. No reason at all but the simplest - he stands with the runestone at his back; he lives within its net of power and he's under its protection.

Is it possible? These days he'd believe it is.

A sigh shaking out of him through still-seized lungs, he runs back to the hut as fast as he can go without spilling his basket of berries. He's gripped by the compulsion to check on Tristan, and goes quickly inside to see if he is awake. He's warmed by the sight of dark eyes, and barely even remembers to take off his cloak before he goes to him.

"Tristan," he breathes.

"I'm higher than I was last time."

"You are," Galahad whispers back, laughing breathlessly.

"Did you build something?" Tristan cranes his head. "Gods, I'm surprised I'm not dead."

"That's not funny, Tristan."

"It's a little funny."

"So you say." Galahad makes a face at him. "Are you hungry, love?"

Tristan thinks, then he nods. "Starving."

"You've been doing well with the broth so I'll make you some porridge," Galahad tells him.

"God," Tristan groans, "fine."

"I can put some honey in it." Galahad grins down at him.

"Better be a lot."

"So demanding." Except Galahad would give him anything he asked for. The grin Tristan flashes him is entirely knowing.

Galahad busies himself with heating water. It's quiet for a few minutes, just the sound of birds and the trees rustling outside. When Tristan speaks, his voice is soft and weary.

"As happy as I am to wake in this dream with you, my love, I cannot wait longer to ask - where are our brothers?"

"Back at the fort, I suppose. Or gone." Or dead. Seeing the traveler, so soon on the heels of sending Iseult with a message...he can't help second-guessing so many of his decisions - but not leaving.

Tristan is still watching him. When Galahad turns, he holds out a summoning arm. Galahad goes without protest. He kneels by the bed, and Tristan strokes his hair.

"What happened, Galahad? Why are we here?"

It's the first time Tristan has actually asked about anything, and Galahad's throat feels thick. "You were wounded, Tristan. They all thought you would die. They wanted to separate us." He frowns slightly.

"Separate us?"

"I did not wish to - leave your side," Galahad mumbles.

"Why would they separate us, beloved?" Tristan whispers.

"I had perhaps...been undone by nearly losing you," Galahad whispers back. "I have doubt I've completely returned to myself even now. But I did write to Arthur, at least." He swallows weakly. "I wanted - I wanted to keep you safe, I felt that it was somehow his fault you had been hurt."

"You accused him," Tristan says softly.

The words make Galahad bow his head. "I thought his war had killed you, Tristan. I was only waiting to die by your side."

Still stroking his hair, Tristan nods. "But as it is, I live," he murmurs, "and I should like to wash myself. Is there a bathtub in the place?"

"I'm afraid not," Galahad says, making a mental note to procure one, "but regardless, you are too weak for such things, my love. Allow me to continue to tend you."

"I want out of bed," Tristan beseeches him.

"And I want you to live, not reinjure yourself," Galahad snaps halfheartedly.

"Galahad, I have been in this bed for how long?"

"Weeks," Galahad shrugs. He's lost track.

Tristan touches his cheek. "Please, Galahad. I need to go outside."

Like the honey, Galahad can't deny him a single thing. "I'll carry you to the river. You _must_ be careful, understand?"

"You too," Tristan scolds.

With a huff, Galahad lifts him from the bed, carefully and slowly as he can. It's easier when Tristan is conscious, though he's gotten used to manhandling his unconscious form over time. Even though he's half a head taller than Galahad, he feels lighter now than he had when they first started on their journey, and their journey down to the river is slow but free of peril. He checks Tristan's bandages again when he sets him on a rock, out of long habit.

"I'm well, love. Nothing snagged." He grins at him shakily.

Galahad leans in and kisses it. He's atremble with relief at the sight of him out in the sun. He carefully helps him undress and, settling him with his feet in the clear water, goes to grab the bucket he's been using to rinse himself. Carefully between them, they manage to wash Tristan's hair. Galahad dries it off as best he can to prevent a chill, then helps him stand and wash the rest of him.

Although Tristan is stoic, the color starts to drain from his cheeks before long, and Galahad tries not to patronize or emasculate him as he wraps him in the length of cloth, takes up his clothes and carries him back to the house. He stokes the fire and serves him more willow bark tea, with porridge to follow after.

Tristan presses the cup against his chest as if to absorb the warmth, eyes occasionally drifting shut. Distantly, Galahad wonders if he's following Iseult. He strokes tendrils of damp hair away from his face.

"Thank you for taking me down to the water," Tristan whispers, "it was good to see the sky again."

"You'll see it every day that I can carry you, until you can take to your own feet," Galahad promises.

There's a strange pain in Tristan's face that isn't physical. He reaches out and grasps Galahad's hand in his own. "Will you lie with me a while before we eat?"

"If you like," Galahad replies. He climbs onto the bed beside him, watching him closely. He wants to know what's paining his beloved so.

"I'm glad you brought me here, Galahad," he whispers, "I don't know if I could have faced anyone but you seeing me lame."

"You'll heal, love," Galahad replies. His nose finds Tristan's cheek, nuzzling. "And probably be even more lethal."

"From your lips to the gods' ears." Smiling, Galahad strokes his chest, and Tristan peers at him again. "Your hair looks mad, did you know that?

"I can't say I've noticed."

"Well, I'm telling you. It's gotten wild."

Galahad just shrugs. "I don't care."

Tristan's fingers wind into the mess. "Very well." He tugs him up gently; kisses him soft. "I like it on you."

"I like to have you looking at me."

"It's a very good thing I like to look at you."

Galahad tucks his face into Tristan's neck, inhaling briefly before he pushes himself up. "You need to eat."

"As do you."

"I will if you will." He retrieves the porridge, and brings a bowlful to Tristan when he's drizzled in some honey from his stash of leftover supplies. When Tristan's hand shakes after half the bowl, he supports it with his own.

With a faint smile, Tristan holds out the spoon, loaded with porridge. "You pretend to be the invalid for a minute."

"If you like," Galahad murmurs, taking the offered mouthful. Tristan's grin is enough to convince him. He watches the entire process with more interest than Galahad would have assumed he was currently capable of.

"Is this amusing you?" he asks, when a wavering hand globs porridge at the corner of his mouth. He licks it away, fingers wrapping gently around Tristan's wrist.

"Very much so."

"You're a horrible old man," Galahad tells him.

"Yes, aren't I? Kiss me."

Galahad doesn't hesitate. He tips his lips to Tristan's and sighs at the sweetness there. He's never felt love like this. Tristan's gentle fingers on his shoulder say he feels the same. He lets Tristan kiss him until he's visibly exhausted.

"Finished?" He strokes his hair back.

"Not willingly," Tristan grumbles.

"Get some sleep, Tristan. I'll sit on you if I must," he adds.

"What did I do to deserve such a threat?"

"Your usual misbehavior." Galahad sits up and deliberately fetches a blanket, tucking him in. Watching Tristan's eyes grow visibly heavy makes him sigh despite missing him. He loves him so.

*

That afternoon, as he makes his rounds, he smiles at the sight of the stone. "Protected," he murmurs, mind winding back to Tristan. He feels a surge of proud affection. Even if Tristan didn't make it, he found it and knew it for what it was, and he earned its favor. His woodwitch. His heart overflows.

He checks the horses before he goes inside, humming. Everything seems in order. Tristan is sleeping peacefully. He stocks his gathered foods into the corner farthest from the fire and steps back outside, just to see a feathered form whirling out of the sky. Iseult, with another poor bird dangling from her claws.

"A duck," Galahad says, pleased.

It will be an odd dinner, but he'll be pleased to get some protein in Tristan. Roasted properly, it should yield a decent amount of meat.

When the bird is plucked and hung, he goes down to the river once more to check his fishing traps, and brings home a few small perch to smoke while he cooks, two of which he gives to Iseult as a prize for her spoils. Only then does he unroll the message she'd borne back to him on her leg. The seal is unmistakable as the hand inside. She's found her way to Arthur.

Breath quaking a little, he reads over the contents of the letter. Gawain has left the fort as well, it seems, leaving only Bors and Vanora. Arthur sounds cautiously, forcedly casual in his letter, more or less avoiding the topic of Galahad's accusation until right at the end - _You're welcome home any time, brother, and I hope we shall meet again soon._

Galahad grits his teeth. He casts the letter aside for when he's calm enough to read it again without feeling this irrational surge of anger. Then he goes to check on Tristan again.

He's stirring, brows drawn. Galahad sits next to him on the mattress and waits.

"Hurts," Tristan whispers, cupping the deeper wound on his side, looking better every day but still knitting together slow.

Galahad strokes his brow. "Let me put some ointment on it."

Tristan nods in acknowledgment. He looks a little clammy with it as Galahad peels back the bandages and surveys the wound. Galahad can't spot anything amiss with it. He applies the ointment generously even so, and then redresses it and all the others. Then he helps Tristan outside to greet Iseult.

"Hello, beautiful," he whispers, sitting down on the log from before, balancing her on his lap. Galahad watches them commune from the spot where he's planted a few medicinal herbs. Jealousy feels far away now, now that he's seen. He's glad to give that tickling spectral connection back to his love. His calm, ethereal magician.

When he can't stall any longer, he goes back to Tristan and sits at his feet. A surprised little smile, but Tristan strokes through the wild curls at his crown. "Hello, pup."

"Hello." He draws his knees up under his chin with a sigh. He's not sure how long they sit before Iseult flaps off to circle the river, and Tristan's other hand comes to his shoulder.

"Are you all right, Galahad?"

"Arthur wrote back," he says after a moment.

"What did he have to say?"

"He's sending Vanora to a rendezvous with supplies," Galahad murmurs.

"I'd be all right, if you wanted to ride to the closest village."

Galahad just shakes his head automatically. "I'm not leaving you. Ever."

"Ever?"

"Ever." He turns his face up.

Tristan cups his cheek. "I love you, pup."

"I love you," Galahad says, and his voice sticks on the words. Tristan just watches him, eyes warm.

"I'm all right," he promises softly, "I'm going to be fine."

"You'd better be."

"Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

"No," Galahad murmurs.

Tristan keeps stroking. He cards through tousled curls, again and again, letting them wind around his fingers. "Beautiful boy," he whispers, "you stole me away."

"I did."

A silence as Tristan takes in their surroundings. "We're free now?"

"We fought their battle as we were asked. I didn't wait around after for them to find any excuses."

"No." Tristan sighs. "I like it here."

"I need you to get well so you can help out around the place," Galahad teases gently.

"Yes. Well, perhaps we could - add to it a little, if we're going to stay."

"If you have ideas, I'll listen." Galahad stalls then. "Wait - we can stay here?"

"Why not? It's mine as much as it is anyone's."

"But - you want to?"

"I can think of nothing I'd want more than to spend my time in the forest with you." Galahad raises his eyebrows, faintly suggestive. "And Iseult," he amends.

Galahad laughs. "As you say."

"Is this retirement then, Galahad?"

"I hope to the gods that it is," Galahad grumbles.

"I'll be sure to have a word." He keeps stroking Galahad's hair.

"I don’t doubt it. You should lie back down," Galahad tells him.

"I don't want to," Tristan sighs. "I feel less confined like this."

Galahad thinks, then nudges him. "I can bring the mattress outside until I can build you a chair."

"A chair?" Tristan echoes, teasingly skeptical.

"They're for sitting in."

"Oh, is that all?"

"Not necessarily." He gives Tristan a hot glance that he's not at all able to follow up. Mores the pity. Even so, Tristan's own gaze isn't exactly cool. The need that lives between them shows its teeth.

"We do have a bed, at least," Tristan muses.

"Indeed." Galahad nods, decided. "I'll bring the mattress out while the weather is fine, you can rest while I cut some more wood for the fire."

And so he gets up, and shifts the soft bed into a sunny spot. He helps Tristan to settle down with some bedding, propped up against the side of the house. He receives a soft, loving kiss for his troubles.

"Go on then, boy, let me watch you."

So Galahad lets him watch. He falls asleep after a while, and Galahad watches him back. He comes to stand over him to shield him from the sun eventually, worried about him over heating.

"My love," he murmurs, touching his arm. "Will you drink some water?"

Tristan obediently lets him pull him up, and some of the water from the skin trickles down his chin as he drinks, wiped away by Galahad's hovering hand.

"Tell me how you feel."

"Tired," Tristan sighs, "I've never felt so tired."

Galahad sighs. "You're healing, that's all."

"I know." A slow sigh. Galahad sits down beside Tristan. He leans his head against Tristan's shoulder. "I love you," Tristan tells him quietly.

It's the truth that makes Galahad patient when nothing else will. "And I love you."

He sits in the sun beside him for as long as he dares. Eventually, Tristan squints at him. "What were you doing before I woke up-?"

"Chopping wood. Tidying the garden."

"Mm, the garden." That makes him chuckle.

"It _is_ a garden," Galahad complains.

"It's a clearing, love."

"Well, who do you think keeps it cleared?"

Tristan chuckles again, helplessly. "You work so hard."

"Don't make fun of me, old man," Galahad laughs helplessly.

"I will if I like." Tristan's leaning down for a kiss, and their lips cling. His fingers stroke through his wild hair again. Eventually he asks to be helped back inside to sleep.

Truthfully, Galahad is glad he's finding his limits. He knows it will only last for so long.

//

Tristan wakes alone in the house, and spends a long time staring at the ceiling before he can bring himself to move: there's a harsh, insistent pain in his back and he has to relieve it. Even their bed, blanketed with soft furs and full of sweet-smelling rushes, is suddenly insufficient to provide any comfort.

He has to find Galahad. Which means moving to the edge of the bed and slowly swinging his legs over the side, cursing silently at the feeling of being an old, old man. His stomach screams with pain, but it's bearable. He puts a shaking hand out to the bed frame; hauls himself up further.

"Surprisingly sturdy," he mutters.

His boy is always surprising. He's graceful, and beautiful, with a wonderfully philosophical mind behind the bad temper - but they've never had much opportunity to put their life skills to test outside a battle field. Now, Galahad has brought them to this place. It feels like a second chance. It feels like they can be safe here.

At that moment, he tries to lift himself up, and the door bangs open. "Tristan!" His surly boy has a tone like a fishwife when he wishes.

"My legs hurt," he tries.

"They'll hurt more if you fall over!"

"I'm tired of being in this bed, pup."

"I know," Galahad soothes. "But you're not ready."

"I feel ready." Possibly an exaggeration.

"I know that to be a lie," Galahad murmurs. He comes over. "Come here, let me at least help you."

"I don't want help, I want to come outside and see you myself." Not to mention hunt Iseult, ride his horse, please his lover...

"I know, but you won't be able to do things ever again if you fall and bleed to death."

Tristan gasps when he's finally upright. "I'm all pins and needles."

"It'll pass. Breathe. Then we'll walk you outside."

Galahad has built him a bench out there, a wide, low seat that he pads well with more furs. "Sweet boy," Tristan grits when he sees it. His cheeks flush a bit.

"A chair seemed a lengthier project."

"We can share this."

"Yes, of course."

Tristan tugs him down for a kiss as soon as he catches his breath. "I miss you," he tells him, trying to keep it from sounding like an accusation.

"I never wish to be far from you," Galahad murmurs.

"I know - I know that." He squeezes his hands in his own. "I feel like you've been far away though, like you'd gotten used to being here alone."

"Hardly," Galahad tells him. "I talked to you every moment of rest I had."

Tristan bites his lip. "Did you," he whispers.

"You didn't hear me?"

"I suspect I was insensible for much of it," Tristan admits.

"I know." Galahad leans into him slightly. "I felt it sometimes."

"Felt what, darling?"

"The absence of you. It felt...like I was suddenly nothing."

"You could never be -"

"Shh, it's not - it wasn't worth, it was presence. Perhaps it simply was the deepest sleep I could imagine, but it felt...like you weren't here anymore. When Iseult was gone and you were sleeping, and I couldn't find you while we slept."

"Find me?" Tristan asks softly, though he thinks he knows.

"Sometimes if I was close, I felt I could find you while we were asleep. Like golden threads all over my vision, and all I had to do was follow them."

"My love, I hope you always do."

"I want to," Galahad says faintly. "I couldn't ever get too close to you."

"You could get a little closer now, if you like." Tristan offers him a grin.

"Tristan, you're not well enough for -"

"Not even if I promise to stay very, very still?"

He sees Galahad's eyelids flutter, knows he's tempted. "That would only be feasible if you were back in bed," he says stoutly.

"A stern nursemaid," Tristan tells him fondly.

"Pardon me for being desperate for you to remain alive." He soothes the sting of his tone with a kiss.

"I am alive, pup. Alive and grateful." He kisses his knuckles in turn. "Do you have some chore I may observe, this morning?"

"If you like."

"I'd rather return to the bed, but we've only just gotten here."

"I couldn't keep you _in_ bed a minute ago."

"You could've if you would've climbed into it."

A considering silence, and then Galahad stands up. "Come."

Tristan lets himself be helped back up. As ever, his boy is startlingly gentle as he deposits him back in bed. Then he stretches carefully beside him.

"No moving, no stretching, you stop me if it hurts."

"Yes, dear one," Tristan murmurs. He loves to watch him grow serious and thoughtful. Loves to watch his eyes glow with a deep-held want. "You could start by kissing me," he suggests softly.

"Could I?" Galahad teases.

"If you felt so inclined."

Soft lips touch his chin before he's finished speaking. "Luckily for you, I do."

Galahad kisses his cheeks, nose, lips, everywhere not covered by beard. He's sweet and soothing.

"You said you'd get closer," Tristan mumbles, struggling not to lift and tug.

With a little sigh, Galahad shuffles in. "Incorrigible."

"In love."

"In good company." Galahad's hand starts tracing his skin.

Tristan's toes flex, and Galahad tuts at him. He's avoiding every bandaged area already. Tristan sighs. "You don't have to be _so_ careful, Galahad..."

He's hushed, but a kiss placed at the center of his chest. "Just stay still."

Galahad's mouth is everywhere after that. Hot and inviting. Tristan, not having been told not to, rests a hand on his curls. The kisses Galahad gives him are each soft gifts, cherishing and adoring, laced with heat. The heat comes in the form of a very controlled hunger.

"Galahad," Tristan urges softly.

Galahad's calloused palm pushes beneath his breeches. He palms over him delicately. He's not much more than half-hard, but it feels good. So intense after the time without. Yet so familiar; the feel of Galahad's fingers, the scent of sweat dampening his hairline. Tristan tips his chin up and sighs.

He can feel Galahad's mouth on his hip, now. He's stripping down his trousers, hands careful. Pushing Tristan's thighs gently apart to cup the weight of his balls, nose into the crease of his thigh.

"Galahad-" he arches faintly.

Galahad hushes him, tongue darting. "No moving."

Tristan smiles. "Very well." He watches the sable head duck lower.

The heat of his mouth is overwhelming as he takes Tristan in half hard, sucking soft and wet. Tristan makes a noise of gratitude. He's missed him so much. Missed this more than almost anything else. He groans his name weakly. Feels his love run through him like his own blood.

A trembling hand in his hair is permitted. He uses it to tangle and pull gently. Watches Galahad's pretty cheeks hollow, his lashes flickering. He can feel his body gathering, blood pooling slowly as he stiffens.

His eyes roll back. He sees the sun breaking in fat bars through the trees; flower buds opening on branches. He feels thrown out of himself by the contact. Like he's healing. Like he's _growing_.

Galahad sucks sweet and slow, coaxing him hard, keeping it teasing. Tristan makes a soft noise.

"Galahad..." he knuckles gently at his hair. Mostly just to feel the silk of it. To gently tug him faster too; to hear his hum of pleasure.

He lets Tristan guide him. Seems entirely focused on him; on this. On the pleasure binding them together like roots. Tristan turns his face into his pillowing arm and groans low and urgent. Hands stroke him soothingly.

"Galahad- gods-"

The boy just hums, making him groan again. He's so good to him. Full of as much love as Tristan himself, unbelievably. He feels so fortunate.

He lets his head fall back. Galahad picks up a long, slick rhythm. It's enough to make Tristan's eyes roll back. In his mind, Galahad lays apples and bread and flowers at an altar, head bowed in summoning prayer. He can feel himself flushed with heat, like sun-warmed stone. He feels summoned, and duly worshipped. Galahad brings him to a slow, endless peak. He's missed him so much. Even insensible in bed, he felt the lack. Now he trembles with the fierceness of the pleasure; the pure devotion Galahad gives him. It's hard to stay still, but he manages.

"Galahad-" he pleads softly. He needs something more. He watches his eyes find his own. "Please, love." He shifts his thighs open.

Galahad pulls off, voice faint from his efforts. "You'll strain your stitches..."

"Just your fingers, then."

"Hells, Tristan, that's what I meant, did you think I was going to mount you when you can barely stand-?"

"Please," Tristan begs. He groans when Galahad curls a hand around him, stroking him as he leans up for a kiss.

"My love, can you not come like this?"

"I want you inside me," he admits weakly.

Galahad automatically soothes the lines on his face. "I don't want to overexert you..."

"Please," he says again. He bridges weakly into the slickening stroke of Galahad's hand.

Galahad tucks two of his fingers between his lips. Watching him suck makes Tristan's breath come quicker. He's so desperately moved by this pup's love for him. He'd do anything for him. Has done anything for him. Now he pulls glistening fingers from between his lips and smiles.

Tristan pulls him down into another kiss as his fingers slip down between them. He finds Tristan's entrance and presses gently. Hitching his thighs is only slightly uncomfortable. Feeling Galahad touching his tender places wipes all of it away. A gratified moan escapes him.

"Yes, love, please."

Galahad kisses his knee as he presses his fingers in deeper, before his head bows to take him back into his mouth.

Tristan sighs out a breath. It's good, it's what he needed. "Galahad - gods, you're perfect-"

He means it. With everything in him. He's filled and cherished and teased. Shaking in moments, entirely enthralled. It feels like forever since he's been so close. It's been long enough.

"Gal," he grits heavily.

A faint humming buzz of acknowledgement; the beckon of his fingers. He groans. It's heavy, unwinding need. The swift coil of an unceasing pressure.

"Galahad - my god -"

He's never come like this before, a long and drawn out rush. Like water drawn from deep within the earth. He overflows.

Galahad grips his thigh like he's trying to contain it all. Tristan breathes through it, then opens his eyes. He's aware of his stomach aching dully. But he doesn't care. He reaches for Galahad, still lazily cleaning him with his tongue. A grip on a few curls gets his attention, and then he slithers up for a long lazy kiss.

Tristan moans into his mouth, soft and grateful. Galahad curls around him protectively. His arm under Tristan's neck, the other hiding him from the world as he pulls the bedding back up around him.

"Don't go," Tristan mumbles.

"I'm not going, love."

And he doesn't. Tristan dozes helplessly and Galahad never moves.

*

When he stirs, it's getting dark, and Galahad's breaths are steady and deep beside him. They both needed this. Though, Tristan thinks guiltily, he did fall asleep before he even considered returning the favor. His poor love. He lifts a hand to stroke the wild curls. One day, he'll be able to spoil him as he deserves.

"Mm-" he starts to stir now. Then he tucks his face up under Tristan's chin and inhales. His warm, calloused palm finds a bruise-free spot on his ribs. "Do you need water, love-?" he asks muzzily.

"Yes," Tristan admits.

Galahad sits up immediately to retrieve some, barely awake, still more preoccupied with helping Tristan than himself. Tristan grits his teeth and accepts. He feels awfully well cared for when Galahad tips him carefully up to drink.

"Thanks, pup."

"It's all right." He kisses Tristan again.

A hand snagged in his hair keeps him close; he doesn't want him to withdraw. "We've slept the day away," Tristan tells him.

"I'd wager it's allowed on occasion."

Tristan smiles and kisses his forehead. "I suppose there's no rules out here."

"None whatsoever." They beam at one another softly. "How do you feel?" Galahad asks.

"Tolerable." Tristan sighs. "Feeble."

"Improving," Galahad reminds him.

"Slowly," Tristan counters.

"You were run through!" Galahad hisses.

That makes Tristan swallow. He considers himself blessed with enough wisdom to know when he has pushed Galahad's nerves enough. "I know. I'm all right."

"You'll listen to me, then?" Galahad says fussily.

"I won't be able to get away from you, so I suppose I must."

Galahad laughs. "At least you admit it."

"One of us has to face the fact you've spirited me away," Tristan says, but he's teasing.

Galahad's smile doesn't falter. "Yes, I have. I stole you and I intend to keep you."

"Then I am helpless to submit to your will."

"Very good, Tristan."

They chuckle, and then Tristan sighs. "Will you do me a favor though, soon?"

"Of course."

"Find me something to use as a cane?"

Galahad nods. "Only if you use it sparingly, mind."

"I promise." Tristan says it with a smile. It's easy to make him promises. Harder to be patient, as always. Though not with Galahad. Just with himself.

"Cold?" Galahad asks softly, interrupting his quiet, "Hungry?"

"No, and yes," Tristan tells him. "Soup today?"

"Yes, of course." He leans in for another kiss. Sweet and soft and perfect. Someday soon, it will be Tristan serving Galahad, he's determined.

*

Tristan's health improves far more slowly than he’d like. It's weeks before he can move unassisted, and in the meantime Galahad's hair gets wilder and his lingering glances keener - he's worried, Tristan knows, that he will go backwards before he reaches the finish line.

Tristan is worried, himself. But he doesn't let it show. It's been so long since he's felt healthy, or normal, but he has all the care he could need – and there are measures he can take, if he gets desperate. He doesn’t ask for favor of old gods lightly. And he knows, logically, that his injuries should have rightfully killed him. But here he is, by the runestone he found as a boy, with Galahad guarding him day and night. Perhaps the reason he survived is not such a mystery - he's always fancied Galahad a god in human form. Tristan knows well enough how to deal with protective deities who've taken an interest in you - you worship them. And you take the gifts they give you in return.

*

He wakes, as he often does, to sunlight, and a dull ache in his back. Sometimes in the recent weeks Galahad has rubbed it for him, hands slick with oil, strong fingers working into the knots, careful around the tender, bruised skin of Tristan’s slowly knitting exit wound. This morning, though, he’s alone. Not that he could be anything but grateful – he has wanted for nothing, and Galahad has never flinched from any task, even the most humiliating, whilst Tristan has had limited movement.

With a slow sigh at the ceiling, he levers himself up out of bed with the crutch Galahad has fashioned him and moves slowly to the door, pulling on the long robe Galahad always leaves for him - soft wool, warm and blanketing. Tristan doesn't know where it came from. He suspects their brothers have been keeping closer contact with Galahad than he's shared. That's a concern of its own, but not hugely surprising: Galahad is jealously guarding his health. Tristan can't feel anything other than cherished.

He's not precisely desirous of his brothers' company in general, but he knows deep down that he has mourning he has not yet confronted. It simply doesn't feel real. Not as real as Iseult, and Galahad.

His pretty falcon is waiting for him now when he steps out into the bright morning sun. He pulls on a gauntlet they keep on the bench by the door and lifts an arm for her. Immediately, she alights, and he presses his forehead gently to hers.

A series of images, bright and claw-sharp. Galahad down by the river hauling in fish, shirtless and sopping wet. He smiles at that one. His bird truly has his best interests at heart. And, unexpectedly, Galahad's.

He strokes her chest at the thought. "You're a good girl," he croons.

A pleased little trill at the words.

He debates walking down to the river, next. The path is a little tricky, but it would be immeasurably worth it. "Come with me, girl."

She takes off, landing on a branch nearby, waiting for him to catch up: clearly she doesn't fancy his chances of walking without dropping her. He's not sure he does either. He tosses the glove aside and uses his crutch to propel himself slowly but surely down to the riverbank. He doesn't wobble once, to his immense satisfaction.

Even so, when Galahad clocks him he looks outraged. Tristan smirks.

"Tell me you didn't stagger down here without me, old man."

"I didn't stagger at all, pup."

Galahad sighs at him, getting out the water to come to him, bare legs gleaming wet. "Please sit down before you fall in the stream."

Obediently, Tristan eases himself down to a tree stump. "Looks like fun," he comments.

"If you like smelling of fish, sure."

Tristan chuckles. "I've smelled of worse."

Galahad makes a face at him. "Delightful."

"You know you find me so."

"I do, hence the reason I'm gutting fish in the river for your supper."

It's a good point, truly. Tristan favors him with a bright grin. "I always said you'd make someone a lovely wife someday."

"I hate you."

"No, you love me. Come love me now."

"Fine; then you'll smell of fish too."

"Just a reminder of your touch."

He watches Galahad approach with outstretched hand. "You're a soft old man, Tristan," he tells him fondly.

Tristan feels that he's earned it. "I'm not that old. I'd like to be."

"I'd like you to be as well." Galahad comes near enough to be drawn down onto Tristan's knee. "I'd like you to be so much that I'd rather not crush you to death."

"Hush, boy."

Galahad does, if reluctantly. Tristan touches damp, sun-warmed skin.

"How did you sleep?" Galahad whispers.

"Well, my love. Just well enough, without you."

"I was with you until the dawn."

"I only wish it could be more."

"More than your sole companion, every minute of every day?"

"More than the dawn hour, which steals you for work I cannot help with."

Galahad touches his cheek, stroking back his hair. "Tell me to abandon it and I will."

"Just for a while?"

"Until I need to replenish our stores."

Tristan laughs. "Perhaps soon I might help."

"Hmm," is all Galahad offers. Tristan pokes him in the side. "Yes, beloved?"

"Let me help. I feel as if I will waste away in bed."

"No," Galahad says, stoutly.

"Anything I can do," Tristan murmurs.

"You can recover."

Tristan firms his lips into a solid line. "I see."

Galahad tilts his head, stroking his hair back. "Tristan..." At Tristan’s sigh, he tilts his head. "What is it, love?"

"So inconvenient, this mortal body, so easily felled.” Would that he were strong enough to do something about it – to ask the proper way. Perhaps if he had help…

"Yes, mortal after all. I think the Woads and their mage are the only reason you survived, as much as I’d like to believe you lived simply because I wished it."

"If you wished it, I would be nine feet tall and stronger than before.” They both laugh, and then Tristan considers. “Woads, hm?"

"Their priestess gave me the tea and ointment that healed you."

"Yet I'm still - this."

"Alive," Galahad tells him, "when you should be dead."

Tristan laughs. "You're telling me not to be impatient. You, Galahad. I suppose I deserve it."

"No..." Galahad shifts off him only to kneel before him in the patchy riverside grass. "You just deserve to feel better, and take your time."

"I only want one of those things," Tristan grumbles.

"I know, but you can't have one without the other." He makes a very reasonable face.

Tristan still pouts slightly. He strokes the damp sable curls to make himself feel better. "You're pleasingly underdressed," he observes after a moment, to cheer himself up.

"All for you, nothing to do with fish at all."

"I thought so." He strokes over Galahad's sun-warmed shoulder as well.

"I knew the chance at seeing me half naked and stinking of fish would entice you."

"Entirely."

"You always were a strange one."

"You love that," Tristan says complacently.

"I do." He gazes up with a frankly adoring expression. Tristan sighs at the sight.

"Oh, pup. My fortune could never be anything but good."

"And why not?"

"Because I have you."

"'More of a curse than you know."

"At the moment, yes," Tristan grumbles.

Galahad tilts his head. Then he laughs. "Because I won't let you work?" He touches Tristan's knees, eyes bright. "When you're better, I promise I'll thoroughly wear you out, worry not."

"Oh. Well." He strokes Galahad's hair back. "Sounds promising."

"I'll make you all the promises you need."

"You're proof I don't need them." They lean on one another silently for a moment.

"I saw a man, a few weeks back," Galahad says eventually, "by the road. I raised a hand to him, but he didn't see me. Looked right through me. I think at the time I wondered if you and I had become ghosts.”

Tristan smiles crookedly. "Aye, I imagine."

"Is it the stone?" Galahad asks, softly.

"Yes, it is. Its magic is much older and more powerful than anything I could conjure. This is a good place."

"How did you find it? You didn't seem to remember at first."

"It's been a long time. You were a pup in truth, the first time I found it."

"So what, eighteen?" Galahad rolls his eyes.

Tristan allows him his annoyance because he loves to watch it. "I think maybe I was just around that age, maybe a few years more, and so you must have been to my knee."

This time, he gets a snort. "You're a fool."

"You speak so sweetly to me," Tristan says, touching his face.

"You need a little salt every now and then." Galahad grins as he says it.

"I'm sure you're right." Tristan reaches for his crutch. "Should I let you work?"

"And leave me? Gods, no."

Satisfied, he settles back down on his log. Galahad rests his head on his knee, sighing softly. "You speak of magic, but I want to know.... Tell me more about Iseult. Is she - a part of you? Or could you do it with any animal?"

Tristan sighs. "Difficult to explain. But yes, and no. If she - died -" he stops, sighs again. Galahad waits, eyes big. "I could bond with another creature," Tristan continues, eyes tracking the treetops to find her. "But I would mourn."

Galahad's warm hand finding his bare leg under the robe calms him at the thought. They're all here. They're all whole.

"Will you teach me about it someday?" Galahad asks, softly.

"I'm no teacher."

"You always did well enough for me," Galahad tells him. "I want to understand, even if I couldn't practice."

"I'm not so sure you couldn't," Tristan replies.

A faint pinkness spreads on the bridge of Galahad's nose and ears. "Well, however you see it. I'd like to know more."

"You shall, then."

"Thank you." He fidgets. "Want to come and sit on the bank by the water?"

"Yes, love, I would."

They go, Galahad supporting Tristan as he wades to a shallow spot; perches on a rock and watches the clear water carry away the glittering flecks of silver as Galahad takes up the task of cleaning and scaling the fish again. Tristan watches contentedly - young muscles, creamy skin, honest work.

Eventually, Galahad finishes; rinses his hands and arms thoroughly. "How do you feel?"

"I breathe more easily here," Tristan murmurs.

"Good." He wades toward him, legs lifting high in the sparkling gold water, everything around him lush and verdant and peaceful with dawn promise. "I'll need to smoke these now," he motions toward the basket of fish. "Will you join me back at the house?"

"Can we stay a little longer? I don't want to be back inside."

"Then we'll sit outside."

"Thank you," Tristan murmurs. He allows Galahad to help him to his feet. He can't help but admire his half-dressed state as they move. Forest spirit indeed.

Back at the house, Galahad brings some berries and porridge out to Tristan for breakfast, the sun drying him off in no time. He doesn't bother to re-dress. Tristan thinks it is for him now. He considers shedding his own robe, but decides against it.

They eat in comfortable quiet. Galahad leans against his legs again.

"You want to learn magic," Tristan says slowly, the subject finally coiling round to the forefront once again.

Galahad pauses to take it in, then nods. "If it's...something I can learn."

"Something you can help with, certainly. I'll need some things."

The pup looks desperately curious, now. "What things?"

"Herbs, carving tools...and there's a pouch of stones in my saddlebag, if you have them about."

"I do - Vanora brought your things."

Tristan pauses, fingers idly tugging and releasing one of Galahad's overgrown curls. "I wouldn't mind seeing her some time," he murmurs.

"Mm, very well." Galahad pushes himself up to his feet, leans down for a kiss. "I'll get your bag. You can make me a list."

Tristan smiles. "Thank you, sweet." He glances skyward and whistles.

Distantly, an answering cry. He sees the swirl of leaves as Iseult descends. She lands nearby, vocal and fluttering.

"You started this, so you ought to help me with it," he tells her.

She gives him a tilt of her head. He suspects her expression is feathery amusement. He holds out a hand.

She hops closer until he can stroke the crown of her head. All the while, she peers at Galahad as he returns with the satchel. Tristan senses her keen attention in the way his own senses broaden.

"She likes you," he muses.

"I was pretty sure she hated me, before."

"She probably did. She's a bird, they don't love easily."

"If you say so."

"I do."

Galahad studies her, then Tristan. "She shows me things. I suppose it's even more vivid, for you."

"A little like a memory."

"Like you've seen it and it's just flashed back into your mind?"

"Yes, a little like that."

"Why her?" Galahad asks.

"Why did I choose her?"

"Yes."

"I didn't, in fact. She chose me. She fell out of a nest when I was scouting, into my path. When I picked her up, I could see the way she saw me."

"So you didn't need a spell at all."

"I had already done the ritual to find something - to give a part of my soul."

"Your soul -" Galahad breathes.

"All yours," he assures softly.

"And mine is yours. I'd hate to take any small piece of it away."

"Mine is whole, merely occupying two places at once." He touches Galahad again, never satisfied with any small contact. Galahad looks between him and Iseult, expression wondering.

"So if I would ever do the ritual... something would find me too?"

"Maybe. I've never shown anyone else how to do it."

"I think I might want to try."

"All right, love." Tristan smiles softly. "But today – was the moon full last night?”

“Nearly. Tonight, I think.”

“Good - the time feels right, and I want to do something else - you can watch, and help."

Galahad nods seriously, still knelt at his feet. Tristan smiles softly at him. He reaches for the bag Galahad has brought out. Slowly, carefully, he clears his mind and writes down what he'll need. It ought to keep Galahad busy for a short while, gathering components, and he can gather his energies.

Finally getting dressed, Galahad takes the list and bids Tristan goodbye with a kiss. Tristan watches him go with fondness. Always eager to help, his pup. He knows these last weeks have been difficult, but there's a different air to him these days. Calmer, somehow. Nursemaiding him has given Galahad something to be patient about. He's not even frustrated with their lack of contact, it seems. Just grateful to be here with Tristan, seemingly alone and safe from the outside world.

Probably not good for him, Tristan muses. Not in the long run. He sighs to Iseult, scritching her chest gently. She cocks her head, eyes closing.

"Thank you for looking after him."

He feels a deep surge of what can only be love, not sure if it's his or hers. It's one and the same, he reasons.

"What do you think would find him, if I teach him the ritual?" Tristan murmurs.

She huffs softly; flutters.

Tristan smiles. "Don't be jealous," he tells her.

Another indignant chirp. He only laughs, leaning back and stretching his legs out to wait. That ritual is a matter for another day. In the sun, with the horses grazing nearby, he's quite at his leisure. If it weren't for the limitations of their dried stores and Galahad's little gardens he thinks he'd be getting quite fat.

The many weeks being unconscious in bed have taken care of that, that being said. Still, it's unlike everything he knows. Everything still and calm. And most of all, safe. He decides this afternoon will do nicely for what he has in mind - it feels like an auspicious day.

First, they should eat. He's dragged himself into the hut and is starting to cook some of the fish Galahad has caught for lunch by the time he hears him return. Galahad enters looking flushed but triumphant, his satchel full over his shoulder and a tall, slender sapling set by the door, unearthed at the roots.

"I got everything."

"Well done. Lunch is nearly finished," Tristan replies.

"Thank you," Galahad murmurs. He gathers the rest of their lunch things and lets Tristan settle himself back outside.

They eat quietly, Tristan watching with amusement as Iseult pesters Galahad for scraps. He's sweet when he tries to be firm. He's also terrible at it. Finally Tristan sends her off to hunt so Galahad can finish his meal. They smile at one another.

"We should go to the standing stone," Tristan tells him.

"All right. Whenever you want."

"Now," Tristan says. "While the sun is high."

With a faint smile, Galahad gathers the things Tristan asked for, and helps him up. He keeps his crutch in one hand and allows Galahad to take his other arm for the walk.

At the great stone, they pause, taking in its pocked surface; the jagged marks and smooth carvings. Tristan takes a deep breath, lets the power it emanates wash over him. When he closes his eyes, it's difficult not to see all it has to tell him.

"Do you see it?" he asks.

Galahad makes a soft noise from close behind, faintly questioning.

"Come here and touch it," Tristan murmurs. He can't help but grin at Galahad's suggestive eyebrow raise as he steps forward. "Be good, pup."

"Always." He holds a hand out.

Tristan watches fingertips touch stone. Sees the moment it strikes Galahad; wrenches his shoulders forward and his eyes shut. He gasps at the residual burst.

"Galahad..." Tristan cups his shoulders.

 _Tell me how._ He heads the words directly in his mind.

"Don't do - just feel it." He widens his own consciousness to take in the chiseled runes, the ley lines branching away from their feet.

They feel like they're at the centre of their own world; nothing but the gentle warmth of animals and insects around; millions of connecting threads.

"Remember how it feels," Tristan murmurs.

"How could I forget." Galahad leans back into his chest.

It feels good to be the one supporting again. Tristan lets it wash through him. After a moment, Galahad sighs, clearly feeling that contentment too.

"Remember how the connection feels as you set out the items on my list," Tristan whispers.

Galahad nods, and slowly withdraws to do as he's bid. Tristan watches Iseult make circles. Eventually he looks down at where Galahad has delicate laid everything down in a semicircle before the stone - apples, flowers of all sorts, herbs in neat bundles, and the sapling, buried now in the soil.

"Good, pup. Now the burning, then the marking."

Galahad lays a small fire in the middle of the semi circle, the skinny branches of the sapling catching in his curls as he works. He burns the herbs and flowers at Tristan's instruction, mixes a paste of the ashes. Tristan takes the small stone palette off him and uses his fingers to paint on the stone.

"We'll leave the tree and the apples as an offering. You just need to add a few drops of my blood to the stone," Tristan grins crookedly.

Galahad looks like he wants to protest, but instead he says, "Does it have to be fresh?"

"Squeamish, pup?"

"I like your blood in your body, but I have plenty of evidence of times it hasn't been."

"A few drops from a fingertip," Tristan assures him, "will not be missed."

"I heartily disagree."

Tristan shushes him with a kiss to the shoulder and pulls out his belt knife. Galahad visibly tenses when he makes the cut. But Tristan merely patters blood droplets - one, two, three - onto the mixture coating the rock and then tucks his knife away.

"Is that it-?" Galahad asks.

"Now we wait."

"Okay. You need to lie down," Galahad reminds him.

"I feel fine," Tristan sighs.

"I'm sure that's true."

Tristan looks down at him, dark eyes meshing with blue. "I'm well," he promises, "though I could be persuaded to lie down."

Galahad scoffs. "Dirty old man."

Tristan grins in silent agreement. Galahad shoves him, though with absolutely no force behind it. "What?"

"Lie down then." Galahad's cheeks are very pink.

Tristan grins, and lets Galahad lead him back to the hut. He props his crutch against the wall and goes to their bed, sitting gingerly and pushing off the low slippers Galahad had made for him, when it was obvious lacing and unlacing his boots was still beyond him.

After a moment, Galahad follows. He lets Tristan take care of getting himself settled, and truly, he moves with an ease that was unthinkable mere weeks ago. When they're both close on the bed, Galahad is the first to reach for his hand, his own smelling of rosemary and chamomile. A hint of smoke caught in the curls of his hair.

Tristan pulls him close and gently kisses him. "Can you still feel it?" he whispers.

"Like pins and needles."

"Tell me if it fades, or strengthens." Tristan is curious if the connection, once opened, will last.

Galahad nods in quiet understanding. Then he kisses Tristan's chest. "You seem bright today."

"I feel bright."

"I'm glad, love." He breathes out, then in, "I do too."

"You do," Tristan agrees softly. He thinks he can feel it, through that same connection, that soul-deep connection that lives in his chest. The same one that tells him Iseult is on the prowl out there. The same one that told him today was the day. He gathers Galahad close and feels for the stone and the ley lines.

It's there, clinging like the smoke. Their little pocket of safety.

"I miss you," Tristan whispers.

Galahad clings a bit tighter. "I've been here the whole time."

"I miss being together."

"We _are_ together."

"Giving you pleasure," Tristan grumbles, feeling himself deliberately misunderstood.

A slow breath, and Galahad winds their fingers together tighter. "You give me many kinds of pleasure."

"Well, then tell me about them so I can feel some satisfaction," Tristan grumbles.

The smile Galahad gives him his full of the feeling of summer. "I get to look at you. And see you take your first waking breath in the mornings. See the dawn kiss you awake, and feel its breath on your lips when I do the same. I get to see you calm, and easy. I've never seen you like this before."

Tristan closes his eyes to hear it again in his mind. "It's for you. Because of you." He sighs. "It's because of you."

A slow sigh like a caress. Galahad lifts his cheek from Tristan's shoulder and noses at his cheek. "I barely feel worthy."

"No one could be more so." He strokes his hair slowly. "Come, sweet Galahad. Let me show you how worthy."

He watches Galahad bite his lip, teeth white within the startling dark of his beard. With a soft noise of intrigue, he shifts himself tentatively to kneel over Tristan's lap, looking into his eyes. So close now, somehow closer than he's been before, like it was more than physical space between them.

It was Galahad's fear between them, he thinks. Fear of losing him. He hopes that has eased a bit, today. It's kept him rigid for long enough.

At the thought, Tristan reaches up and strokes through the wild mat of his curls. His eyes are soft as he looks down. Slowly, he bends to seal their lips together. He takes the physical strain of curving around Tristan, cups his face and yields to him like he often has before, completely and with relish.

Tristan makes a pleased noise. There he is. His lovely pup.

"Closer, boy, you're not hurting me."

"Tell me if I am," Galahad mumbles, curling close.

"I'll tell you. Kiss me."

His mouth is so warm and soft. He's so _gentle,_ sweetly giving pleasure. When Tristan arches, he stalls.

Tristan breathes hard, reaching. "Please, I'm okay. Just touch me," he pleads.

Galahad sighs and bends to kiss his throat. "I can feel your heartbeat," he mumbles.

"I'm sure that's not all you can feel."

"It's not. Tristan -" Galahad looks tempted.

"Galahad." He waits patiently.

"If you stay quite still-"

"Then I'll be permitted to let you touch me and not the other way around? I don't care for that option."

Galahad frowns slightly. "So what do you suggest."

"Move closer. Hands on the wall. You'll have to keep your balance." Each sentence is a soft order.

Galahad makes an uncertain noise, but surely does as he's told. Tristan waits until his creamy thighs bracket his shoulders. Then he starts to unfasten his tunic and loincloth.

"Good," Tristan breathes as he braces his palms against the wall.

"Tristan," Galahad protests faintly, "what if you hurt yourself?"

"Have a little faith. But that is why you're the one moving," Tristan murmurs.

Galahad bites his lip on a whine when Tristan nuzzles against the rise of his cock. Tristan just breathes in the scent and heat of him. He feels bright and warm, like coming home.

"I won't let you hurt me," he breathes, lips traveling up his length.

"Don't," Galahad pleads, a bit of a whimper in it.

Tristan tastes him. He can't hold back his groan. Gods, it's been so long. Above him, Galahad trembles out a gasp.

He holds still for the passage of Tristan's tongue, until Tristan tires of teasing. "Tristan," he groans, when he takes him into his mouth proper, fastening his hands securely against the backs of Galahad's trembling thighs and hauling him close.

He just sucks lightly in response, feeling the familiar stretch and tingle of taste. He's missed him so much. His boy. His. Keening above him, tasting salt sweet.

Tristan urges him with his grip to move. The first real push makes them both groan. Tristan's mouth waters and he pulls him faster. Oh, faster is all he wants.

Galahad sounds like he's the one being choked, his sweet sounds fractured and shy. Tristan's head spins, but nothing hurts. Nothing could. He sucks Galahad deeper on a moan, moves a hand to wrap around the base. With the other, he keeps him moving. Galahad, with a sweet overwhelmed noise, lets himself thrust.

"Tristan, Tris-" he bites onto his knuckles, elbow against the wall and one hand slipping to Tristan's hair.

The tug and pull makes Tristan moan again, lips tightening. He can still feel him being gentle. But he's moving now in slow deliberate circles, using what Tristan is giving him. He tastes perfect, slowly weeping need, and Tristan's own need coils through him, banked, waiting. He wants so badly to show Galahad even a fraction of how he adores him. He feels it must be escaping his skin like heat, hopes it warms his boy in turn.

Galahad gasps again. "Tristan," he pleads, "it's, I'm..."

 _Good_.

He can feel it, he thinks, fleetingly picturing the stone. With his stomach straining against the pressure of the want in the pit of his belly, he swallows around his mouthful and works his hand faster, focuses his consciousness on Galahad instead. Galahad, whose devotion to him spills out like golden light from every pore.

Tristan makes a helpless noise, urging him, clutching at him, running hands over every inch of skin he can. Galahad's belly and thighs grow tight and he moans. He gasps Tristan's name again and he's coming, shaking, and Tristan groans hard.

He tries so hard to swallow it all, eases Galahad back when he has to breathe. It spills down his chin, onto his chest.

"Gods, Tristan," Galahad pants.

He tries to smile reassuringly, but he's afraid he's only gazing. Flushed and glowing, Galahad slides down, cupping his face. He kisses him all over, arches down where Tristan is hard for him; needy and yielding.

"My love," he breathes, hands a gentle cage.

"Touch me, please," Tristan breathes.

Galahad nods, curls tumbling across their faces. "How-? Anything-"

"Anything," Tristan agrees, arching up.

Galahad is pulling at his clothes, one hand wiping gently at his mouth. Tristan hinders him by kissing at his fingers. Groaning, Galahad spreads his clothes open and starts to kiss carefully down his chest.

Tristan holds his breath. The first scalding swathe of Galahad's tongue makes him hiss. Galahad makes a soft noise and spreads a palm over his stomach, soothing. Tristan knuckles his hair and sighs. The curls are a riot of silk in his hand. He feels hot over him, weighty, more real than anything surrounding him, so good it hurts.

Not that he'd tell that to Galahad, his worrisome pup. He tugs him gently at the thought, keen for more.

He's still just licking. With Tristan's guidance, he opens his mouth proper and swallows him down with a groan, and Tristan feels it to his core, gasps his name, voice a-tremble. He only slips down farther. He's moving his mouth in long, fluid motions, smooth sucks and swallows. His hands clench like he's starving, his eyes closed with intent. Tristan tries to lift up into it, but Galahad pins him down, mouth making greedy noises.

"Galahad," Tristan whines. He feels helpless and needy, struck dumb with love. He can feel his loins drawing right under Galahad's greedy mouth. He tips his head back into the bedding as his thighs tense; it feels like heat through his veins.

"Galahad," he sighs, "gods, boy, I love you."

He can feel Galahad moan. It's startlingly good, electric and toe-curling. He tremors underneath his hands.

"Galahad," Tristan breathes. "Please, love." He's so ready for release.

With a soft moan, Galahad curls a hand around him and strokes him fast. It's enough, more than enough. Tristan chokes on the rightness of it. He holds himself still by sheer willpower.

Galahad gives him release with practiced ease. It seems to last forever, and it's all the more sweet for being a reciprocal feeling. He can feel it spreading through him and flowing into Galahad. Undercut by the buzz of the prayer stone still tingling in the very centre of his bones. It feeds them both and they feed it too, a loop of electricity.

Panting and sated, Tristan pushes Galahad back gently when he's done. Not far, though. Never far. "Come up here, beautiful."

Galahad looks up, licking his lips. When he settles beside Tristan, they gaze at one another for a while. Their bodies naturally curl toward one another.

"Ready for that rest now?" Galahad whispers. "I'll make dinner."

"In a few minutes," Tristan bargains, wrapping an arm around him. Keeping him close. Galahad tucks his head in its accustomed spot under Tristan's chin. "You smell of magic," Tristan murmurs.

"Do I?"

"You do."

"Is that...good?"

"It's nice."

He can see the tops of Galahad's cheeks flush. "It's part of our life now."

"Mm, more than you know."

Galahad snorts. "I think I know."

"How's that, boy?"

"I've felt it since - since the moment you -" Galahad sighs. "You know."

"Mmm. I know." Since the moment he _hadn't_ died, despite all odds. "I wonder if perhaps Iseult isn't the only place my soul is moored."

Galahad mumbles into his chest hair, "and how did that happen?"

"I don't know, love."

"You don't... mind?"

"Do you?"

Galahad mumbles something else, it sounds suspiciously like _"all I've ever wanted,"_ and Tristan has to squeeze him closer. "I can feel it, you know."

"What does it feel like?" He fails to keep the breathlessness out of it.

"Like we're sharing a blanket," Galahad muses. "You move, it tugs."

With a considering silence, Tristan strokes Galahad's curls. "I think I've felt you for years."

"Truly?"

"I think so. I can't remember a time I wasn't always aware of you."

"We've been together a long time," Galahad agrees softly.

Tristan closes his eyes and pictures his pup - a year ago, five, ten. "We really have." He can't remember a time he didn't love him. He can remember fearing the love, though. Always so much love, more than one person ought to have been able to hold. Maybe because it wasn't all his own. Tristan kisses the crown of Galahad's head. Of course. "Can we sleep?"

"For a little while."

"Why only for a little while, pup? What have you got planned?"

"Dinner, you layabout. Now take your nap."

"Nap with me." He tugs until Galahad's eyes meet his.

"I should work," Galahad protests faintly.

Tristan doesn't let go. Silence conceding defeat, Galahad relaxes slowly against him.

//

Galahad wakes the next morning to warmth, and a soft tingle in his chest. It's dawn, and he realizes with faint surprise that they've slept right through. He's not entirely sure how, because now that he's awake he's ravenous. He slips out of bed and moves to dish some kindling into the cold grate.

He's practiced at doing this quietly now, so as not to wake Tristan. Even so, he stirs by the time Galahad is stirring porridge over the heat. Galahad keeps his eyes on the flames until he's certain the porridge can sit - he's learning.

Tristan is blinking, stretching in a yawn. Galahad kneels by the side of the bed he built them and watches him. He's still barely dressed, and when he shifts one of the dressings on his stomach falls away.

"Tristan," Galahad gasps.

Tristan stalls, and looks down. Galahad reaches out, with everything he has.

The wounds on Tristan's torso are... gone. If he looks hard, he can see faint silvery scars like spiderweb.

"Tristan," he breathes again weakly, "I..."

"Touch them," Tristan murmurs. He doesn't seem at all surprised.

Galahad obediently reaches out a hand. When his thumb skims gingerly over the tender new skin, he's flooded with that feeling again, like when he'd touched the runestone.

"Witchcraft, Tristan?"

"If you like."

"I did this?"

"We did."

"But… it was so easy." Galahad is absolutely taken aback.

"You think so?" Tristan frowns.

"I just did what you told me." Even after Iseult, the standing stone, everything... Galahad still doesn't feel special in the slightest.

"The stone did the work, darling."

Galahad glowers a bit. "Then we could have done this sooner?"

Tristan shakes his head, "Not - exactly, that's not how it works. You have to be ready, you have to give something. You have to know what you're doing. And you have to be willing to pay the debt."

"Debt?" Galahad whispers.

"Sometimes, you have to bleed," Tristan gets up, examining himself, "and - you and I have paid a lot of debts for others, Galahad. The stone knows. This land knows."

Galahad barely hears his words, caught watching the way he moves. "Yes, but-"

"It's all right. Come see with me." He reaches out his hand, unconcernedly naked, tugging Galahad out of the house and down the path to the stone, moving as easily as if he'd never been wounded.

Galahad keeps close, almost afraid to look. Tristan still wears most of his bandages, faded bleached linen against his golden skin. When they get to the stone, his breath catches in his throat.

The sapling is bare, leaves turned brilliant crimson and scattered like a carpet around the base of the stone. The apples are gone, a circle of scorched earth around the stone as if it had been set ablaze. The small stone where Galahad had ground the herbs, where Tristan had dripped his blood, gleams like a jewel in the ash and leaf litter. He feels struck helpless and dumb with his lack of understanding.

"Tristan," he whispers, resisting efforts to drag him closer as Tristan leans to pick up the shining stone.

"It's all right, pup. Don't be afraid."

Everything in the vicinity of the stone is vibrating faintly, including them. "Don't be afraid," Galahad scoffs weakly, "Tristan, this is dangerous-"

"We are dangerous," Tristan murmurs, "Once we were weapons, and now we are something different."

He tugs Galahad against him, bends his head to kiss him. Galahad has to put his hands to his warm chest; to feel the wholeness of him. There are slashes in his tattoos where the scars cut through.

Tristan kisses him, and he's struck with a nearly irresistible urge to bite, to put his own marks on the beloved skin. But if what Tristan says is true, the scars are his marks. Their marks. Their will writ large through blood and fire and stone and growing things, just like the stone before them.

He scrapes his hands desperately into his matted hair, emotion choking him. He thinks he's crying, a little, even as Tristan tastes his lips, licks gently inside. He can't get close enough; can't feel his wholeness enough. He knows his grip is frantic; feels Tristan gentle him as always.

"I'm all right," he whispers, "Galahad, I'm truly all right." His own voice is breathless.

Galahad can't help but clutch him tighter. He buries his face in his neck and clings. Tristan moans softly at the feel of his body.

"Beautiful boy. Come on, I want to wash proper." He keeps hold of the rock, but steers Galahad backwards, towards the river.

"What are you doing with that?" Galahad asks dumbly.

"Keeping it, since it's proved to be a strong spell focus. Unless you changed your mind about the familiar spell?"

Galahad stalls behind him - he had forgotten all about it. "I don't know. I don't know. I need to think."

"All you like, love. We have all the time in the world."

Galahad stays close to Tristan as they walk, jarred by struggling to keep up with him. The crutch has been left behind entirely. He feels the lingering fear of him stumbling, ripping something. Then they reach the bank, the tree with Galahad's hidden stash of soap, and Tristan starts unwinding bandages.

He's completely healed, somehow looking exactly as before. Except, of course, for the scars. One on the front, a twin on his back.

"Get undressed," Tristan smiles crookedly. "I'll need help washing my back."

Galahad shrugs off his breeches hurriedly and follows him into the water. Tristan's sigh when he steps into the deeper pool and mostly submerges himself is long, and slow. The way the water refracts him puts Galahad in mind of many terrible dreams he had where Tristan ribboned away through his fingers like light and mist. Now, he looks like a dream.

Galahad wades closer. Tristan dips to wet his hair, and turns to him. "Wash me?"

Like he has most days since they came here, Galahad dutifully accepts the honor. This time, there's nothing separating his hands and all of Tristan's skin. Under his seeking thumbs, the scars are raised and soft, the way only very old ones are. Galahad shakes his head to himself.

"It doesn't matter," he mumbles.

Tristan cranes to meet his gaze. "Forget what you think you know, love. This is what is."

"And I'm glad, Tristan. I really am."

Just... stunned. He's not sure why. These days he believes in so many more things than ever before. He never truly believed them though, he realizes now. Not like he believed in Tristan. Maybe he ought not to be quite so skeptical next time. Or - to at least be more wary of how his actions might affect the delicate balance they seem to exist within. The thought propels him into Tristan's arms.

"Hey..." he holds him, one wet hand coming to rest on his crown. "What's troubling you?"

"It's just so clear to me now," Galahad whispers, "how much I need you."

"You don't need me, you've been managing fine."

"That's why it's so clear, love."

"What do you mean-?"

"I'd have given up, without you."

Tristan frowns. "I'm still here."

"I know. I'm grateful." Galahad looks up. Tristan is still frowning. He bites his lip. "I don't know what I'd be, if I didn't have you. Just a soldier."

"You could never be ‘just’ anything," Tristan looks up with overwhelming love.

"I am, though," he swallows heavily, touching at the wet lengths of his hair, "I am."

"We disagree on that." Tristan kisses his jaw, just softly. Galahad closes his eyes when Tristan's lips drift up to his lids next. _I see you_ , he hears, like a faint murmur of water.

He pushes his face into Tristan's neck at the thought, kisses the pulse he can feel there, skin cool from the water, and he holds him. For as long as he can. Then he feels himself gently set onto his feet.

"Come on. I want to feed you," Tristan whispers, "let's wash off."

Galahad lets himself be rinsed clean and led back to the hut. Seeing Tristan's easy stride feels like a dream. He savors it more than any food, but he takes the bowl of porridge and dried nuts and berries when it's handed to him, and he eats.

A full stomach helps to calm him slightly. He can't keep from watching Tristan with every mouthful. Tristan watches him back, looking quietly thoughtful. Some strange knowledge has settled upon them, between them. They both feel something... more.

Eventually, Tristan holds out an arm. Galahad goes close with no hesitation, kneeling onto the bed beside him.

"Pup," Tristan says softly, "I adore you."

"I love you," Galahad whispers.

"I know." He wraps his arms around him gently.

Galahad knows too, with every inch of him. He clings back tightly, and Tristan draws him up against his chest, into his lap. He shushes Galahad gently when he chokes on the first breath of overwhelm. Galahad tries to breathe softly. It keeps coming though, and he clutches Tristan crushingly tight as his eyes burn. "I didn't know if you'd get better."

"You've said, love," Tristan soothes.

"I know but it-"

"It was so hard. I know."

He buries his face harder in him and accepts the comfort of his wellness, his aliveness. Tristan's hand doesn't stop soothing through his hair.

"You're exhausted, pup. You've been on high alert this whole time. You should try to spend a little time resting, if you can."

"I don't want to rest," Galahad sighs.

"Why not?"

"I want you." He knows he sounds more petulant than anything.

"I'm here, I'm not going."

"Good."

He feels Tristan's smile against his cheek. "Was that quite what you meant, pup?" he murmurs.

"Not just that. But – we don’t have to…"

"Galahad," Tristan laughs, "I've been trying to persuade you to touch me for weeks and you have been devastatingly patient and gentle."

"I know, I know. I want you to touch me," he admits. "And I don't want you to be gentle."

Tristan answers him with a kiss. It is slow, but not precisely gentle. His hand fastening in Galahad's hair is anything but.

Galahad gasps, grasps at Tristan's shoulders. "Yes," he mumbles.

Tristan shushes him with another soft kiss. "I know," he whispers back.

"Please, Tristan."

"You know I would never say no."

"But you could if you wanted-" he's seized by doubt again.

"Galahad," Tristan says intently, taking one of his hands by the wrist and pressing it squarely over the worst of the wounds - now, scars.

He bites his lip and closes his eyes. Of course Tristan knows. Breathless, Galahad presses in to kiss him clumsily. "Please," he whines.

Tristan cups his face. "Yes." He pulls him close to kiss him and slowly, shakily, they come together. On their big bed, in their little house. Safe. Warm. Theirs.

It's so important to him. Tristan is so important - tanned skin and deep dark eyes and gentle hands. Hair as wild as the woods that hide them. Tattoos and a soft voice and - gods, he feels tears again.

Tristan kisses his cheeks. "My sweet Galahad..."

"Not sweet -" he breathes.

"So sweet. Sweeter than any honey."

Tristan kisses him until he can't breathe. He only breaks away to push their cheeks together; smear his tears between their skin. His hands are greedy now, slipping all over Tristan's warm skin. He's all right. He's whole. He's staying. They're both staying right here.

"I don't want to go back," Galahad says, hurriedly.

Tristan soothes him with a touch. "We won't." Another kiss, softer, longer.

"Promise me."

"I promise, pup. We're done with war."

Galahad nods and kisses him again. He gasps when Tristan turns them over with a grin. They ease back together, breathing hard, and Tristan rolls their hips together. And it's not gentle. It's perfect.

A low moan escapes Galahad. "Yes," he whispers. He cups the back of Tristan's hips with a sigh. "You feel right like this."

"On top of you?"

Galahad grins. "Arse."

"Between your legs." He tries again.

"Closer." Gets an eyebrow raised for his troubles. "Inside me?" he asks hopefully.

"Gods, yes please."

Tristan noses at his throat and his hands start to push and pull at Tristan's clothes. Not that he's wearing much. It's gone with little effort, but Galahad is greedy for more. It seems quite mutual.

"The oil," Galahad mutters.

"Can't even wait for me to warm you up, pup?" Galahad growls at him, and he laughs. "That easy, pup."

He's so, so easy. He nods urgently. He can feel Tristan's smile as he leans to kiss over his skin instead.

"The oil, then, boy."

Galahad squirms and reaches. There's a basket of supplies Galahad has been keeping under the bed for tending Tristan, and he selects a jar of oil from the back. Tristan's lips twitch.

"Don't," Galahad warns. He's only half serious.

"Well prepared," is all Tristan whispers.

Galahad pinches him. It makes him laugh. Tristan plucks the jar from his fingers while he's distracted.

"Now, my love, where would you like to be?"

Galahad sighs. He doesn't care at all. "In the future, where you're talking less and doing more."

Tristan is still smirking. "On your belly then."

Galahad scrambles, face burning hot. Tristan's laugh is entirely worth it; his big, caressing hand, warm down his spine. Galahad sighs and tips his head to kiss him when Tristan leans down.

Tristan obliges him, then moves his mouth to his shoulder as his hands work between them with oil and Galahad cranes to watch him as best he can. He can feel his mouth slack with desire. Tristan meets his gaze with a grin. Galahad fancies an actual glow about him; he's obsessed, ready to beg.

Tristan's fingers smooth between his cheeks, caressing, teasing, and Galahad's thighs quiver. "Tristan," he begs, "don't keep making me wait, _please_."

He feels a gust of breath. "All right, love."

His fingers circle, press. Galahad bridges with a soft hiss.

"Beautiful boy, just one moment more."

Galahad doesn't need his fingers, but it's so good to feel him press inside; gently stroke like he can't resist.

In fact, that's exactly what he admits when Galahad asks, "Why are you waiting, love?"

"I'm - reacquainting myself. I missed you."

His breath is warm across Galahad's back and he's going slow despite Galahad's threats. It feels too good to be truly angry about. He's still stroking inside, slick and slow, gentle beckoning motions, and Galahad gasps repeatedly. It's not stretching, it's purely for the sake of intimacy; pleasure. Galahad's skin is alight with it. He moans softly in approval.

Finally, he feels Tristan shift behind him, more soft slick sounds as he applies more oil. Then he's finally pressing against Galahad's opening. Arching up beneath him, Galahad groans softly. His intrusion is slow but welcome. A deep, stretching slide, hot and sapid. He breathes out an audible breath and Tristan's lips find the back of his neck.

He feels covered and claimed, just like their first time. A hand covers his, their fingers locking. Galahad bears back until they're touching everywhere. Until they're one.

Tristan gives him what he's asking for, and moves. Galahad moans, and Tristan echoes the sound a moment later. "Sweet boy," he murmurs.

Galahad growls softly, but another few hard snaps of Tristan's hips render him wordless; a flash flood of pleasure, intense and unexpected after so long without. He tips his hips and moans. Shifting slightly, he gets a hand under himself to touch his own aching cock.

It's barely enough relief. Not even with Tristan's greedy mouth at his shoulders, his hips working. Galahad shifts restlessly, bridging and drawing his knees up, gasping at Tristan's pace. The shift in angle makes his body sizzle with that familiar fire. He stretches up on his arms, feeling Tristan's chin digging in his back.

"Oh _fuck_..."

Tristan hums, kissing his skin. His hands cup Galahad's hips, fingers splayed on his belly, a cherishing hold. "Such beautiful sounds, love."

"They're beautiful feelings," he gasps.

That gets him a little chuckle. "I agree."

Another circling grind of his hips, shaking another cry out of him. "I want this forever," he breathes. Begs.

"You can have it." Tristan sounds as overcome as he, despite his quick reply. He keeps working his hips and they move as one. Tristan's strokes come faster and harder, the feeling building up inside Galahad like steam, bright electric pleasure flashing up his spine. Like lightning in the forest...like the sun. He bears down with a cry.

Tristan wraps him up with strong arms and shakes. He's moving controlled, purposeful, hands tight and breaths rough. Galahad knows he's a breath away from coming. He doesn't want it to stop; though. He whines, squeezing his own length. Behind him, Tristan slows a little. He can feel his thighs shaking.

Tristan is kissing his shoulder again, his hands sliding up to Galahad's chest. "C'mere."

Galahad pushes himself up. The shift makes him whimper, oversensitive already, and Tristan's arms close around him tight.

"Perfect boy," he purrs. "Come with me."

Galahad nods hastily, breathing hard through the pressure climbing high in his belly. "Please love, please." He arches his back and moans high and disbelieving when Tristan rocks his hips.

"Yes, good," Tristan grits.

"Tris," Galahad pleads, "faster-"

"Help me," he whispers.

Galahad raises his hips and gasps. They rock together, Galahad rolling his head back. He's so close, so desperate, panting rough and open-mouthed, Tristan's arms around him feel stronger than they've ever been. The snap of his hips, too. His lips press to Galahad's throat and he gasps. He wraps a hand around himself and pulls roughly, his own slick easing the slide.

He can't keep quiet; it feels too good, too much. He rocks helplessly back into Tristan, gasping his name.

"Come on, beloved," Tristan whispers, "let me feel."

With another groan, Galahad drives himself over into completion, spills all over his hand and thighs as he shakes and pulses on Tristan's cock. He hopes Tristan feels it as much as he does.

He sounds like he does. He can feel him buck and groan and he bares his teeth and whines for more.

"Come with me, Tristan," he whimpers, and gasps at the answering snap of hips.

Tristan thrusts raggedly a few more times, then he freezes on a moan, clutching Galahad against his chest as he comes inside him. Galahad can feel every last pulse as it wracks him. He's missed it so incredibly much.

"I love you," he breathes.

"I love you, Galahad," Tristan gasps back.

Galahad can feel his love...through every fiber of their connection, through the very earth under their feet. He twists to kiss him, not ready to feel him pull away just yet. Tristan tangles long fingers in his hair and holds him in place.

Another few lazy rolls of his hips; they both hiss softly. Still they stay pressed close. More kisses; clasping hands. When Tristan finally slips free, he merely turns Galahad in his arms and cleans him with a bit of linen. They sit facing one another on the bed, legs intercrossing, touching wherever they can.

Tristan seems content to just kiss the planes of Galahad's face. In turn, he leans his cheek against his shoulder, and holds his hands tightly in his own. He will not let go, not until Tristan bids him. He doesn't for a long time, then he stirs them enough to pull blankets over them instead. They lie down, still tangled.

"We need to do that again. Repeatedly." Galahad tells him softly.

"I feel favourable."

They're still holding hands. Galahad absently winds one of Tristan's discarded linen strips around their clasped fingers.

"What's this?" Tristan smiles.

"Handfasting, I suppose," Galahad says sleepily.

He hears Tristan's sharp intake of breath. Galahad looks up.

"I adore you," Tristan whispers.

"For the rest of my life," Galahad tells him.

"And then in the next life," Tristan nods.

"If the gods listen."

"They'll have me to answer to if they don't."

"And me," Galahad tells him.

"Well, you'll be tied to me." He raises their still-bound hands and kisses Galahad's knuckles.

Galahad cranes for a proper kiss then. Their lips catch and hold. It's a magic all of its own, a personal magic to hold close to his heart; like a portion of Tristan's soul, tethered to his own. A portion of his likewise bound with golden cord, like the linen winding around their hands.

"We could get someone to do this for real, y'know," he whispers.

"Do we need to?" Tristan murmurs back. Galahad glares at him and he just gives a slow, fond smile. "What? I don't need some priest to tell me I'm yours."

"I've...been yours since I first laid eyes on you," Galahad admits.

"I don't need a priest to tell me that either."

Galahad nods in acknowledgment. "No but." He bites his lip.

Tristan kisses his knuckles again. "I'll tell you when I'm ready to see people again."

Galahad nods. "I understand, love."

"I know." Tristan gazes at him warmly until Galahad feels his face heat.

"What-?" he whispers.

"Simply enjoying my good fortune."

"Don't jest."

Tristan replies softly, "You know when I am jesting."

"I suppose so." His eyes, he knows, bear all of his love. Tristan reaches out to stroke his curls with his unbound hand.

"Every day, I enjoy it. Today I just have more reasons to."

"And in turn so do I." They press their foreheads together. "I don't ever want to lose this moment," Galahad whispers.

"We won't," Tristan says as simply as a prophecy.

Galahad breathes in, then out. "Let's stay in it."

If anything can make that happen, it's this place. The light from the windows is golden, the air warm. He can hear Iseult chattering outside, the river down the way. The murmur of the leaves moved by the wind, even the hum of the ley lines surrounding them. The metallic taste in the back of his throat that tells him of the rune stone nearby, sated by their offerings. It's a peace he never expected. He'll offer up whatever he can to make sure it continues.


End file.
